Sometimes it is a garde champêtre in Louis Philippe’s blue and silver, with his black pipe, his gaiters, his old flint gun, and his embroidered game-bag. He does well in the landscape.
Sometimes it is a pair of lovers, if they are good-looking and well-behaved, or else the boys from Saindou’s school to play fly the garter—la raie.
Sometimes it is Monsieur le Curé, peacefully conning his “Hours,” as with slow and thoughtful step he paces round and round. I can now read his calm, benevolent face by the light of half a century’s experience of life, and have learned to love that still, black, meditative aspect which I found so antipathetic as a small boy—he is no burner alive of little heretics! This world is big enough for us both—and so is the world to come! And he knows it. Now, at all ev
